Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in
by TheOtterKnight
Summary: Thomas thinks about the splashes of colour lining across his skin in harsh, hard strokes. He thinks about what it says about his soulmate. - Modern soulmate au. Newtmas. Thomas/FC.


**Pairing(s):** Pre-relationship Newt/Thomas. Thomas/Unspecified Female Character.

 **Warning(s):** Abusive relationships, implication of an eating disorder.

 **Universe:** Modern au. Soulmate au where everywhere your soulmate touches you on your body it becomes coloured with the first touch being permanent.

 **Word Count:** 3,438

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 **Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in**

He sits alone in his own short cubicle, back pressing neatly against the cushioned back. Shoulders drawn in tight and ankles crossing, he's sure that he's the exact epitome of 'don't bother me, please'. Perhaps his eyes speak the whole truth.

He knows the colours do.

Orange is a vibrant colour, splashing along his collarbones and wrists, too bright to hide the truth. Joy, happiness, a bright and cheerful person is what orange is usually associated with. He feels an inclination to agree, but when he gathers to courage to say it, the words lodge in his throat and the conversations lulls onto something else. A missed chance.

Perhaps the blossoms of colour along his skin ask for attention when he otherwise doesn't. That is alright, it doesn't matter much to him anymore. It only just becomes more apparent the more time he spends by himself, lurking and cowering away from the person who bled the marks onto him. The news that he is alone, without anyone to look at him or judge him is a thought that warms what little of his heart is left. He already lost the rest of it to her. He doesn't want anyone else to see him like this. Well, most people that is - some still pry.

The bartender is sending him a soft look again, something almost pitying but Thomas knows that it is already hard enough to not have pity brought upon him, let alone loathing or jeers.

 _"Got yourself a pretty girl who can't keep her hands to herself?"_

 _"A masochist, are you? Well to each their own I suppose."_

He hears his co-workers and friends mutter that from time to time. Brushing his own hands along her handprints, feeling the dips and grooves that she gives him often, having orange overlay atop the purple, hiding the bruises, he knows that he will assume the same if someone shows him exactly this. Because the concept of masculinity prevents them from seeing the truth - that a girl can hit as hard as he can, that sometimes she likes to leave bruises and scars because she _can_ and not because he wants her to. That he will let her because in some messed up, dystopic way, he still loves her.

He tries to not let others see, not too often anyways. _"Yeah, I'm a high-key masochist. Gotta love the pain,"_ or _"yeah, yeah, I wrestle with this guy I know, he's very tough. I'm trying to get stronger for my girl. Yeah, he has the same colour as her. Odd, huh?"_ is what he says as a response always. Alternating. It is easy, especially with a smile and hands behind his back, he is open, trying to tell them the lies that he whispers to himself late at night. He no longer knows who he is trying to convince, but they believe him, all the time they do because who would dare touch him like that?

Evidently, soulmates can get away with everything and anything like that. It's her, and it always _will_ be her. Her mark of orange mars his skin, nearing his shoulderblade and nape - hitting him by accident as she falls the first time on the subway, slipping and catching herself on him. Her hand is a bright reddish-brown, marks that never go away no matter how much either of them scrub.

The first contact between soulmates is always the same, always lingering, never being removed. If someone tries, then the next time that they'd touch would leave a mark, but it will hurt. It will hurt so bad like a fire and iron in your blood, singing and praising you with pain. _Hallelujah._ It feels like. _Hallelujah, rejoice for your soulmate lingers._

Thomas does not know that feeling. He is afraid of it, afraid that she will linger and it is not worth the fight, and he can't quite tear himself from her because he still loves her, even now. Because he can _fix_ her. He can _heal_ her, he can, he can. He just has to endure it a little bit longer, hold her a little bit tighter. She loves him just as much, he hopes, so one day she will stop and they will be fine.

Because soulmates are all happy and hopes and dreams, aren't they?

.. Aren't they?

On another level, on a level that he does not want to consider, he knows what she is doing is wrong. That there are soulmate battering protection groups, that he can get help. But the world is hung dry on the concept that true love is a thing associated with soulmates, that you are odd if you look elsewhere after them. That you should be happy that you even have them that you should turn a blind eye to their flaws. That because not everybody has a soulmate you should stay. That they can do whatever they like because they are you soulmate.

 _She will get better, she will._ He thinks, knowing it is better to stay, to wait it out because she loves him, she tells him she does. He knows that her other relationships are _fine_ before him, so he knows she will get better. _She will, she will._

A glass slides in front of him and he is brought back, a dull throbbing pain pulsing from his ribs where he is digging sharply, fingers clawing and reminding him to return to the present. Something hot and white flashes before his eyes and he gasps, removing his devil fingers. He does not need to trace her pathway with his own hands. His own colour will not flash across his skin and he will remain marked by orange.

The waitress looks at him and he looks at her with an almost drunken haze. "You alright?" She asks him, wary. What a sight he must be, angry splashes of orange colouring below his left cheekbone and dots of even paler strokes across his collarbones. Borderline romantic but also chaotic. He tries for a smile but it seems to worsen the situation because the waitresses lips tighten and her expression turns stricken.

Thomas can see her own peeks of colour along her skin, harsh strokes of green along her temple and along the rim of her ear, trailing just along the edges of her jaw - someone brushed her hair out of her face, behind her ear then lingers. It's her soulmate, he knows, because green smatters her fingertips, bright and vibrant like the orange on his nape. But she also bears violets and reds across her skin as well, marks of other people, paler because they're not her soulmate but still there.

"I'm fine, just had a long day," he promises her, lies and deceit on his tongue but she believes him because her shoulders roll and she dips her head in understanding. It is easier to believe a lie than the horrible truth, he knows.

"Well, you do look tuckered out," she observes with a click in her tone and he understands. She wants this conversation over as much as she does so he offers her a quick out.

"Yeah. Thanks." A conversation killer, quick and effective and she ducks out, taking with her another glass from him. He watches her go, ensuring that she doesn't trip then turns to nurse his drink, taking a hearty swallow, feeling it burn down his throat. It's stronger than he likes it to be but the buzz will be worth it, especially if this is his only night out in a while.

The glass is cold and the perspiration runs down his fingers, wetting his palms. There's a slow, unbidden thought that he could get drunk and have his troubles wash away like that. He knows it isn't possible, because she will notice if he's gone too long - she'll notice that he's gone at all, actually - and instead he takes a slow sip. It's less bitter than the first time.

 _She misses my company, that's all,_ he thinks, eyes sliding and then catching.

It's the bartender again - he's no longer looking at him, instead leaning across the countertop to talk with another patron. There's a smattering of colour along his brow, then more along his fingertips and wrists and arms. They're all light, different tones and shades and still lighting up his skin like the Fourth of July. He seems to be a real people pleaser then, but in a public job like his, it's hard to remain free of colour.

Thomas knows this bartender though - not personally, not like he knew Gally before him before Gally drops out for personal reasons. But he knows him from around, sometimes out and about doing who knows what during the day and not the whee hours of the morn. It's hard not to recognize him, to recall his golden hair pulled back, almost looking ashen brown in the lighting, to see his dark eyes flick across the room. A square jaw and broad hands, offering up drinks and solace in the form of a listening ear.

Thomas will never tell this bartender his troubles - Gally is the one who listens but he is no longer here. Thomas does not know this one's name, only knows that he is European and has a slow, languid smile. That he is friendly with the air of someone who just _listens_ and _cares._ Thomas does not speak to him because he knows it is a strong likelihood that he'll talk and talk until all his secrets spill out.

And he knows what others say when he talks about his secrets. He can't look at or speak to Minho anymore because of it, because of what he says and doesn't say - he can't handle the pitying looks anymore, the reaching hands with touches of grey and silver. He can't handle the fact that Minho doesn't understand that Thomas just can't _leave._ He can't leave her because she is his and he is hers. There is no one else, right? Right?

But then... he sees them. Some people on the street, loving and adoring and his body _screams_ because why can't he have that with her? Why do they have to be the odd pair out, the ones who have everything falling apart? Why can't they just be happy together like they used to be? He consoles himself, tells himself that it's not her, she's getting used to him, to the fact that it's _expected_ for them to be together. From her friends he knows that she is always uneasy on the topic of soulmates.

But why, why can't he have someone proud of him?

Why not ... why not someone who listens, who helps him along his way? A friend, a pal, maybe something romantic. He doesn't know. He wishes that this is a choice, that it was something that he can mull over. That he could pick his soulmate. But he can't, he can't and he's happy with her because she's enough. She's enough. She is.

Isn't she?

... Isn't he? Is he enough for her?

His eyes are warming up and he stares, determined not to cry. It's easier if he remains as he is, if he doesn't think things over, doesn't hope for things to get better. Because everything is _fine._ A croaking noise leaves his throat as he gulps down some of his drink. It burns, aching and gushing down his throat but it's _warm,_ so much warmer than he'd figure.

He lets down his cup and takes a shaky breath, trying to steady his breathing. His fingers dig into his thighs and he closes his eyes. He can do this. He can do this. He's only thinking about this because he's drinking too much. That's it. That's it.

His hands are shaking as he downs the last of it. Why? He doesn't bother to know the answer, only lets his eyes roam, to settle on something other than his thoughts. There's the bar girl, or waitress, whatever she was, sitting on the stool, and most of the bar is clearing out. Most of the patrons are leaving if they haven't already. Perhaps he should to. Perhaps he'd best get home to her.

But then his eyes linger on the girl because she's talking with the bartender. The one who Thomas doesn't know his name. He's one of those people that Thomas wonders about - one of those people who make him wholly aware of the fact that everybody else lives, that it could be so easy to fall into their lives too, to become lost.

He's attractive, and in some sense maybe he isn't and it's only in an unconventional way, but he is nice to look at. Arching eyebrows and high cheekbones. Thomas isn't even sure who keeps their hair long anymore but he _rocks_ it - it suits him, like some kind of blond Loki. He's got that kind of easy smile, the one that looks a touch uncertain but comes quick and easy and fast, like he can't get enough of smiling.

He is the sort of person who makes you wonder what his colour is - because maybe it will look good on your skin, maybe it will burst in pale shades across knuckles like fading flowers.

It will probably be violet, he thinks. A rich, deep violet that assaults the eyes - dark and bruiselike on skin but different. Not wounding or harmful but soothing, an off-tone that the body can't produce. It is hard to override purple marks, he knows, but it doesn't mean much of anything anymore - because _everything_ can cover bruises now.

Thomas idly wonders if the bartender is the sort to hit someone. If his looks are misleading, if his smile and disarming eyes are a ruse to everyone, if the air of friendliness is fake. Thomas wouldn't be surprised if that is the case - everyone always wants something. Always.

No matter how kind they are or ... or even if he looked at Thomas that way, when they first met. Never touching as he introduces himself without a name, because it's too personal for them and not enough of clients, because don't bartenders strive off of misery and poor sods who can't keep their wallets and eyes closed. The more you blink the faster the tears come, the more you drink the more your lips loosen.

Some of them want to be heroes, he knows. Gally wasn't one of them - he kept his lips shut tight, his eyes dark and jaw clicking. He disapproves of Thomas's relationship with his soulmate but it isn't his business, doesn't tell him off. He knows when someone can't be led astray from the path they've fallen onto, like lambs led by the false shepards. He knows when they can't be saved.

This one, this bartender seems to believe he can fix some people. That his reassuring words will help - because this one talks in low, hushed tones, the sort that soothes the ego. Thomas figures this guy has a bad lot in life because he seems to want to be a shoulder to lean on - always willing to listen and not quite sending the right looks. Never pitying but lost. Maybe neither of them can be saved.

Maybe in another life they both could have helped each other, maybe they could have been friends. Maybe in another world the way the name _Tommy_ rolls off of his lips won't remind him of her. Maybe his friendliness could have led him somewhere else - somewhere less dangerous and less lonesome because if he were true, then maybe he could be a friend. Maybe in another life, he could have been Thomas's soulmate.

But there is no changing the world, no changing the way it worked. Stuck on a path he can't change - on something that he doesn't want to _consider_ changing from because it's all he has known... It was a constant and everything else were variables. Thomas was just dealt a bad hand.

He stands up, sticks his hand in his pocket and draws out cash. He counts it blindly, feels the smooth edges and wonders if he's made of jagged or smooth pieces. The thought is dismissed as the twenties are slapped down, one too many but it doesn't matter, not really. His coat is easily shrugged on, and it dwarfs him, because he doesn't eat as much, wanting to make himself smaller so not to draw attention to himself.

It will be cold outside, he figures, especially when he has to walk home alone. His coat is too thin for this weather and acts as little more than a buffer against the wind, but still it is something. It still gives the illusion of warmth and it still hides the possessive colours and bruises.

The walk to the door is solemn. He almost wishes someone would call him back but nobody does. Nobody ever seems to feel the reality of his distress, of his dual nature - of not wanting to let go and wanting to be pried from her grip. Not even the bartender calls for him and he seems to want Thomas' company the most, wanting to pry him open.

He falters at the door because this is still his solace until he steps out into reality, where he has to face the world. Maybe he should have thought of other things here, deattached himself like so many patrons before him. Even the idea is foreign to him and it slides off of him easily. He can't, not when reality is engrained so deeply into his bones. Not when he wakes up afraid to know if she'll love or hate him, if her mood will change by the time he comes home. He realises too late how much of a solace this place is.

"God, Newton, seriously consider working somewhere else," the bar girl says, just as the edge of his hearing. Thomas tries not to falter, lets the name roll off of his shoulders. He feels like it should matter to him, that the man who tried so hard to get him to open up has a _name_ but he can't think of it. Because it opens too many doors that lead to nowhere and everywhere, places he can't tread. He can't know him. Because then he thinks of missed possibilities, of escaping and of reassurances and not being unsure off once.

Thomas stops, glancing back and unfurling mitts from the lining of his coat. The bartender - the name surfaces but he stomps it down and it settles beneath the fog of his mind, behind orange bruises and liquid fire and drinks that don't drown out the pain - focuses completely on the girl, eyes serious and mouth set in a firm line. He doesn't look at Thomas, probably not realising he intends to leave. He wouldn't have let him, he knows the look in Thomas' eyes all too well apparently but he is too wrapped up in the conversation.

 _No,_ he thinks. _He belongs here._ He will be a good bartender - the one who patrons would defend, the one who blends business and pleasure and becomes a good friend. He'd be good for business, getting people to open up about their problems then solving them because he can't solve his own - Thomas figures that's the case - then actually _helping_ them with them until they can stand. Because once, he couldn't either.

Sadly, Thomas thinks, _It's me who doesn't belong here._ The bar door closes after him solidly with a metallic click, a pair of concerned eyes trailing after him, the weight of their gaze heavy on his shoulders. With the closed door, he severs it between them - between the bartender wanting to help him and his last lifeline. Because he knew that no matter if he turned for aid now, the words will not leave his lips because the truth and the lies tangle messily - they will catch in his throat and his chance will be missed again.

Thomas tips his head towards the dawning sky and takes a breath. It washes him in an orange glow and a bitter laugh escapes his lips. He can never escape her and her rancid colours.

Again, he thinks about if his soulmate is someone else. Someone kinder. Someone like the blond bartender who only wants to help - Newt, his mind betrays him, or maybe someone like Minho who only tried his best. Someone who cares.

But he misses his chance and he walks home with feet made of lead. There is no one else for him. She waits for him, always.


End file.
